Vices & Virtues
by rdrose
Summary: Both Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes suffer from self-destructive vices. Molly took to self-harm long ago, and Sherlock finds solace in recreational drug use. This is a story of how two damaged individuals are brought together by their vices. (Post-HLV; rating for self-destructive themes and sexual content; see warnings inside) *Now complete!*
1. Prologue

A/N:

**I'd like to preface this by saying that I am not in any way attempting to romanticize any of the self-destructive themes in this story, including: self-harm, drug/alcohol abuse, reckless behavior, etcetera.** That is the exact opposite of my intent in writing this story. I went into it with the idea that I could interpret these heavy themes differently, and I thought I could make the elements of the story more realistic as well. I have quite a bit of experience with the effects of all things self-destructive on friendships, family, and romantic involvements as well. In attempting to describe the self-harm, I've used my knowledge of what it's like for me and weaved it through Molly's and Sherlock's characters.

Warnings (if required) will preface each chapter. Expect the following: graphic – but not dramatic or gory – depictions of self-harm, an illustrative portrayal of a psychotic episode, and explicit sexual content (completely consensual). This story has six chapters in total – all completed – and I'll update periodically.

If you're looking for a sappy ball of fluff where he sees her cuts and kisses her and cries and professes his love to her, then you'd best look elsewhere. That's not how it works in real life. In an ideal world, maybe – but that's not how I've experienced it. That's not to say that there can be no happy, romantic ending, though. In fact, I've seen happy endings after this kind of ordeal. In all honestly, this story was spurred by a sudden spike in my personal urges. Since those urges began a little over six months ago, I've handled them well, and I have this story to thank for that.

* * *

Though Molly Hooper's path has met many a mortal soul, not a single member of the crowd has even come close to seeing the morbid truth: that what lies beneath her saccharine, ubiquitous smile is nothing short of tragedy.

Granted, she never gives anyone much of an opportunity to take notice; she's far too busy isolating herself from the rest of the world. She makes artful work of making herself unimportant and invisible (secretly, she takes pride in this ability).

She doesn't very well recall how the problem arose. She remembers the thoughts that ran through her head at the time, and she remembers the waves of emotion washing over her, but the rest is just a blur of faded images and stories of memories she hasn't quite retained (she only remembers them because they're tales that she's told herself a thousand times). Most people remember the incident that was, ultimately, the catalyst in their downfall. Most people can tell you what forced them over the edge, or what sparked their need to jump. Molly doesn't remember what initiated it – she only remembers the result. She only remembers the overwhelming, biting urge to hurt herself.

Okay, in all honesty, it didn't clearly define itself at first – it manifested as a nagging, intrusive demon that refused to leave her be. Whenever Molly would feel the slightest twinge of joy, the demon would remind her of how utterly stupid, insignificant, and worthless she really was – how she didn't deserve to be happy or free. And, in time, Molly learned that there were ways to sate the Monster in her head, at least for a little while. Anything self-destructive would do, really, but Molly took to a certain habit that she felt she could maintain control over. Drug and alcohol addictions could easily get out of hand, and mindless sex could have physical repercussions. She was much too timid to be a thrill seeker, so the more natural adrenaline approach wouldn't work either. In the end, the only thing that she felt right doing was the ritualistic act of hurting herself.

Her habit isn't the way they make it out to be in the media. It's not _always_ razors on wrists, and it's not _always_ as reckless and as spontaneous of a habit as it may seem. Not for everyone, at least. Molly doesn't use razors, and her arms and wrists are only ever utilized if her usual spots are otherwise occupied. She doesn't feel withdrawal symptoms if she goes without it. She doesn't feel the need to go deeper each time. And more than anything, it's important to note that Molly Hooper does _not_ want to kill herself (that's not to say that she doesn't want to die – she just can't fathom being her own means to an end. If Molly Hooper were to die tomorrow, she wouldn't be wholly dissatisfied with the idea). Molly's urges can't really be equated to those of someone suffering an addiction. She doesn't feel that she _needs _to hurt herself. She knows she could very easily go without it. It's not like dosing up time and time again to numb the pain – the self-harm only serves to temporarily relieve her mind of some of the weight, making it bearable for a short while.

Molly Hooper doesn't do it for attention. She doesn't want to be seen or noticed. She doesn't want help, because she doesn't want to stop. She knows she should hate it – she should be disgusted and appalled – but as morbid as it may seem, she _likes _it. She takes pleasure in the damage; she relishes the deep self-loathing that it provides. No – it doesn't _provide _the self-loathing, per se, but it does validate it in her mind. It justifies hating herself so very deeply, and it serves as physical evidence in her mind. It scratches that itch inside her; it stops her inner voice from begging for something else to reiterate the awful things that the Monster in her head tells her every day.

Molly has stopped resisting the Monster in her head. She's stopped blaming it altogether for being the source of her agony, because deep down, she knows it's just another manifestation of the bad things buried in her mind – the truths that she can't bear to hear come from her own voice. It's okay, though – she's made amends with the Monster. They have deep conversations over tea, in which they share their thoughts. The Monster always has the same things to say – but then again, so does Molly (and she can't shake the thought that the Monster's voice sounds an awful lot like Sherlock's).

"_You should probably stop trying. Just give it up – it's for your own good, trust me. This coming from a friend, love. I hate to tell you this, but, well – you know what I'm going to say. You're nothing. You've got this brilliant mind – unrecognised wit that no one will ever see in you – trapped in the body of a quiet little mouse, with the heart of a coward."_

Molly sighs inwardly, because the only thing that she can ever manage in response is, "I know."

* * *

Though Sherlock Holmes' path has met many a mortal soul, not a single member of the crowd has even come close to seeing the morbid truth: that what lies beneath his inhuman, heartless, sociopathic demeanour is nothing short of tragedy.

Granted, he never gives anyone much of an opportunity to take notice; he's far too busy taking them apart and repelling them before they even meet his gaze. He makes artful work of getting people to hate him (secretly, he takes pride in this ability).

Sherlock Holmes is a man of many vices; no matter what they entail, and no matter what degree they progress to, one fact is always constant: these vices are morbidly self-destructive. Thereupon we take witness to the frailty of genius – the mind and the heart go hand in hand, regardless of whether or not Sherlock believes he is capable of possessing the latter at all.

There is, of course, much to be said of the matter: of the man likened to a computer, with meticulous stealth and agility like a video game character, language as pointed and precise as programming code, and a mind equivalent to a hard drive. The only difference between Sherlock's mind and a computer's hard drive is that, while a hard drive has a limited amount of space for data processing, Sherlock's mind is vastly (if not infinitely) expansive, and it has very little limitation in the way of what it can achieve if given the proper attention and maintenance.

A mind this great is hardly ever sated – it needs to be challenged constantly to keep it sharp. One cannot merely sit Genius in the corner and expect it to stare at the wall. No – one would be much better off handing it a puzzle and watching it dance (if not purely for entertainment purposes, then to keep it from becoming homicidal).

Therein lies the problem for Sherlock Holmes: the final problem – the only problem. The greatest problem he has ever faced – one he has confronted more times than he'd like to admit, even to himself. Because what happens if Genius grows tired of having to search for challenges and puzzles to sate its ravenous appetite? What if the world around it refuses to play along? What if nothing – nothing in the whole of the universe, no one on the face of the planet – can satisfy the gaping hole that sits where a beating heart should lie? What if Genius succumbs to the madness that incessantly taunts the bounds of its mind? This is unfortunately the gruesome end met by many a great, intelligent mind.

And Sherlock Holmes is no exception. He cannot escape the tightrope walk that he so frequently finds himself facing. His greatest aspiration is that he might continue to live day to day, balancing on the precipice of contentment, scared straight by the looming threat of plunging into the depths of the madness permeating his own mind (he prays to no one in particular, absolutely petrified by the prospect of developing an ear infection).

So, bearing this in mind, one cannot wholly blame Genius for the havoc wreaked in its wake.

Sherlock's callous nature essentially stems from this cold, solipsistic little world that he's conjured up in his head. To him, it's always been a place of sanctuary; he can cavort about in his sociopathic musings – he can flout social norms without fear of censure or exile. And the best part about this beautiful little refuge is the blissfully quiet, transcendent solitude that is the world's atmosphere. Not a soul is to witness his indiscretions; no one is able to stop his train of thought before it has the chance to become destructive – or great, depending on one's perspective. His thoughts are rooted so deeply in this haven that he has created – this alternate plane of existence that he recedes into far too effortlessly.

Of course, Sherlock could not have created this world without a little help from outside sources – namely, his vices.

It began, in his youth, with rebellious behaviour. When Sherlock first began to realize the potential of his mental capacity – or, as he might put it, when he first began to realize that he was abnormal with regard to his peers – the accompanying darkness slowly crept in, shadowing the boy in his endeavours throughout adolescence. After years of trying so desperately to blend in with the crowd, Sherlock found himself growing restless. He couldn't bear to be dormant, regardless of whether or not it meant that other people would overlook his abnormalities. The mindless nonsense – the ludicrous infantilism in navigating social circles and the status quo, the idiocy of primary school education, the blatant ignorance bred so proudly in the college and university years – nearly drove him mad. All of the absurdity (the things that made him question the promise of humanity, or lack thereof) led him to lash out. His studies and his research began early on in life, as he developed a knack for deduction and a growing hatred for the rest of his species. This sparked the development of the cold, inhuman exterior witnessed today – the shell that Sherlock sees in the mirror that he knows everyone else sees as well. Sherlock's peers were never kind to him, but then again, he was never kind either. He was never bullied; his peers were far too afraid of him to even bother approaching him. As for friends, he had very few, if any. He more considered them "casual acquaintances."

Actually, he considered them "Flatmate #1," "Flatmate #2," "Drug Dealer On Speed Dial," "Flatmate #2's Drug Dealer," "That One Bloke that Doesn't Fall Asleep in My Lit Class," "Flatmate #1's Friend with the Car," "Desperate Lonely Barman from the Pub," and "Umbrella-Clad Drama Queen."

Throughout his transitional years, Sherlock experimented with many forms of self-destruction. He was never much of a fan of heavy drinking – it ruined his capability of higher thinking, in a very bad way. Alcohol was only ever an occasional indulgence. Physical activity never helped enough, no matter how much he ran or boxed or climbed or swam. He does, however, believe that mental acuity relies heavily upon physical agility, so that practice was never fully abandoned.

Sex is... Well, sex is complicated. He once accidentally let it slip in front of his mates that he was a virgin. They took him to the pub, determined to get him to lose his virginity by the end of the night (he did). After that, he didn't care much for pursuing women, or even men for that matter, having concluded that he learned what he needed to know from his initial experience. He will never admit to anyone that he doesn't remember a single moment of that night. Sex was a brilliant release, but it could get messy (no pun intended). STD's and other physical complications aside, dealing with manipulating people time after time seemed far too complex and involved a task for him. It was never just sex or release for other people – there was a certain intimacy aspect to it all that he was unable to provide. He only ever had sex twice after his first encounter: once with a sweet, desperate girl that his mates set him up with, and once with a nameless fox that he met in a pub. The latter taught him almost all of the information that he retains today regarding sex. She treated him like a student, and she was a brilliant teacher.

The greatest, most elaborate vice of them all was Sherlock's shameless drug abuse. There were different drugs for different occasions: cocaine to make something productive of his scrambled thoughts, opium to forget, marijuana to mellow him out, and nicotine for his battles with everyday stressors. The drugs were his favourite distraction of all; it required absolutely no effort on his part to keep his demons satiated. All he had to do was light up, shoot up, or snort up the substances, and the weight would be lifted. Glorious, it was, until he decided to become a detective. Apparently, it was okay being an addict and a graduate chemist simultaneously, but the same could not be said for being an addict and a detective. Umbrella-Clad Drama Queen swept him away upon graduating uni, scolding him for his shenanigans and forcing him to undergo treatment. Sherlock decided that he needed to sacrifice either his drug addiction or his prospective career as an aspiring detective. He chose to give up the drugs.

He accepted his brother's offer, with the added promise of having some strings pulled to get him a place to start out in his career. Granted, it took three separate inpatient programs, but within a couple of months, Sherlock had overcome withdrawal, fought through the detox, and had given up on all of his substances, save for the cigarettes (those would never go – they were his anchor; they kept him sane in his hardest moments). Mycroft invited Sherlock to stay with him in his extravagant living quarters, and Sherlock had to begrudgingly accept. He had nowhere else to live. Soon after beginning his new position at Scotland Yard as a consulting detective, and after months of cohabitation with his brother's most hateful existence, the dust began to settle. As it were, this might seem like a beneficial development in the young detective's life; but as the dust no longer obscured his sight, he began to notice the return of the shadows lingering around the edges of his vision. The darkness was returning, creeping back into his psyche, to the freshly-cleansed nooks and crevices, to pollute and infect them with an ambiguous foulness that, frankly, scared Sherlock beyond his wits.

Needless to say, he needed to find another solution.

In a whole world of endless possibilities, Sherlock took solace in his work, and even more so in his mind. He built that little world inside of his head, brick by stubborn brick (this being an expression, of course – Sherlock would never use something as shabby and fracturable as brick to build his rampart). If Sherlock hadn't been a recluse before, he definitely became one by that point. There was no room for family or social obligations in his hectic yet solitary life. All that matters to me is the work. Without that, my brain rots.

He lived this way until he was able to find a flatmate that would put up with his antics – and that was the start of his friendship with a one John Watson. Still, the work was at the forefront of his brain at all times. When his priorities came under question by the people he acquainted himself with, he just insisted that his obsession was a way to stay sharp and to keep him from growing bored. This is true, to some extent, but Sherlock failed to mention to them what would quickly replace the work in the front of his mind, should he let it slip; he never told them that there was a darkness circling like a cloud of vultures, ready to pounce the instant he decided to relax. The darkness finds contentment rather enticing, which is why Sherlock needed to acquire a job that would lend chaos and spontaneity to his schedule. He needed something that required most all of his focus and attention.

It may be unhealthy – depriving himself of social interaction, food, and sleep – but that's rather the point of self-destructive vices, isn't it? To Sherlock, it all became a matter of what was the most socially acceptable, the least outwardly disconcerting, and the most stimulating vice of them all; Sherlock found himself a relatively comfortable spot, as a cube in a world of cylinders all trying to find their niche. Needless to say, there's no perfectly-fitting spot in this world for a freak like Sherlock Holmes. But he could make the best of it, at least.

(And by "make the best of it," Sherlock means, "contort my cube-shaped existence to fit into uncomfortably tight circular holes to live forever in a constant state of discomfort.")


	2. Bodies

**WARNING:** VISUAL DEPICTION OF SELF-HARM

* * *

_God, what have I gotten myself into? _

Bodies. Bodies everywhere. But not the kind she's used to – not the dead kind. She can handle the pungent smell of formaldehyde, and she's no stranger to cold, taut, clammy flesh underneath her fingertips. But this – _this_ is different. The stench of sweat and sex and expensive cocktails permeates the humid summer air. She can feel the closeness of the crowd of strangers that surrounds her. The sensation of burning, sweat-slicked skin grazing her own lingers, even when the strangers break contact. She can't hear anything over the steady beat of the dance music, but she can see strangers whispering in each other's ears in search of someone to take home with them tonight. She feels the errant hand on her bum, usually followed by a pair of expensive jeans grinding against her as she moves to the music.

_Out – I have to get out. Can't breathe... _She stumbles out of the mass of bodies on the dance floor, walking swiftly toward the nearby side entrance to the club. As she throws open the metal door, fresh air floods her lungs, allowing a blissful moment of respite. Closing her eyes and leaning with her back against the cool brick exterior of the building, she tries to calm her ragged breathing. She looks down, observing the severe tremors in her panic-frozen hands. She rolls her eyes inwardly at herself. _Seriously? I make contact with another human being and have a full-blown panic attack? _Still, she can't stop staring at those hands – she's positively transfixed by the way that they look, gripping the air as if it were a solid mass, and the way that they shake all the way up to her elbows. With her arms out in front of her, her hands still frozen, she tries to calm herself. Strangely enough, what calms her isn't the backs of her eyelids or the feel of fresh air – her breathing becomes steady at the sight of her scarred forearms.

It wasn't until after she and Tom broke up that Molly began using her arms (this isn't because of him, mind you; it's just that, with Tom gone, no one would be looking). They're recent marks, slices in crooked lines from her wrists to the creases of her elbows, and they're more obvious than her lipstick. Tonight, however, she's at the club with a friend and that friend's group of other friends. She donned a tight, black, off-the-shoulder tee and dark skinny jeans, with a pair of low-heel black boots. With her hair down and a bit of make-up, Molly feels sexy for the first time in ages. _It'll be dark_, she reasons. _No one will see. I'll wear my jacket and take it off when I get there. That way, I'm comfortable and no one sees. _Now she stands, poring over her arms, not able to tell if the burning feeling of sweat in her fresh cuts is a good feeling or a bad feeling. _It's both._

"Well, well – fancy seeing you here, Dr Hooper."

_What... what the hell is he – oh christ, forget it. Just hide your sodding arms!_

Molly turns to face the voice, keeping her arms clasped in front of her so that her cuts face her shirt. From further down in the alleyway, she sees Sherlock Holmes, Belstaff and all, smoking a cigarette. "Sherlock!" She can't help sounding surprised. "What are you doing here? I wouldn't peg this as your kind of _scene_."

He looks at her straight in the eyes for a few seconds. "Likewise."

"I... I came to hang out with friends."

"_Friends_?! What _friends_?" he asks, sounding absolutely baffled by the notion. "You have other friends?"

"Yes, Sherlock -" she sighs, remembering that he's not the most socially adept person, "contrary to what you may think to be true, I do have a life outside of Barts' morgue." He cocks his head at her, narrowing his eyes. "Okay, well, sort of. It's small, but not totally non-existent."

"Pardon me, I'm still reeling from the sight of you with your hair down, showing off cleavage and wearing high-heeled boots."

She rolls her eyes. "What do you need from me? You know, flattery doesn't work on me anymore. I can tell you're being insincere by the pained expression on your face."

He huffs. "I need someone to search the dance floor for this man," he says, holding his mobile up to Molly. "He knows I'm on his trail. He should be here tonight, and he won't be expecting me. I've lost John and Mary – I think they've gone to the loo to _distract themselves from the mission_ – and I've grown impatient."

Molly hesitates. "Show me that photo one more time."

* * *

_"Hey Molly, it's John. Er, I – well, Mary and I just wanted to thank you for all of your help last night. We wouldn't have caught the guy without you. I'm sure Sherlock's just as grateful – he's just rubbish with that sort of thing, you know. Well anyway, thanks again! Don't be surprised if Sherlock contacts you again for help on a case – I think that's how he compliments people, by allowing them to grace his presence. You can say no, Mol. You don't have to help him. Anyway, kettle's just boiled. Thanks again, Molly. Ta!"_

Molly gets a laugh out of John's long-winded voice-mail. She shoots him a text, saying: _"It was a pleasure, John. Any time."_

Molly sighs inwardly. She hates having days off – having nothing to occupy her – and as ridiculous as it may seem, Molly loves her job, and she's damn good at it too. _Ugh. What is there to even do? There's the telly, I suppose. I could catch up with my DVR. I could go to the market and get some actual food. I could get a hair cut. Ooh, that sounds like it could be fun. Oh, and I can't forget to get a gift for Mary's baby shower!_

After slipping into jeans and a thick, comfy jumper, Molly sets out for her _day on the town._ And by, _day on the town,_ she means _three hours on the town. _Still, it's something she can Tweet about to make it seem like she has a life – maybe then her friends won't worry about her so much (for the record, they don't know about Molly's vices – not a soul on the planet knows about her vices – so their worry stems from somewhere else entirely).

Three hours and several purchases later, Molly returns home with bags in each hand. After putting away the groceries and her new clothes and after wrapping Mary's baby shower gift, Molly admires her new hair cut in her bedroom mirror. She tries on some of her new clothes in different combinations. She notices how her posture has shifted from slumped to upright, and she wonders if it's the hair, or maybe the shoes, or even the outfit. She feels good.

And then she doesn't.

_You don't look any different, you moron. What, you think an inch off of your hair and a new wardrobe of your same old style will make you look any less pathetic? And newsflash, sweetheart: you can't buy new friends or a better personality. You're a lost cause – and no amount of make-up or new clothes or fake smiles is going to change that. You can't fix your shitty personality, your stutter, your too-small breasts, your too-small lips, or your awful figure. You're just a fucking coward, Molly Hooper. Face it, sweetie – you're hopeless. Irreparable. Your time would be better spent doing something productive._

Molly listens to the voice in her head. She nods, crying, whimpering, "I know. Christ, I know." _I know what "something productive" means. _It means that, to find relief, one must dig deeper into the agony, causing more pain, breaking the physical/metaphorical surface to ease her suffering. It makes her feel worse, always, but it gives her more reason to hate herself and it assures her that her pain is real. Furthermore, it gives her a physical reminder – a twinge of pain here or there all day, every day – of what she is. Or what she isn't, rather. The thing is that, if the twinges of pain are constant throughout the day, and Molly is always aware of them, then the Monster can't disturb her – it has nothing more to say.

With that being said, Molly makes something of a ritual out of the act: every week or so, or whenever the previous cuts have healed, she moves into the loo and locks the door (even though she lives alone). She takes the well-worn cigar box out from underneath the sink, opening it and re-evaluating the state of her supplies. The cigar box holds scissors, a roll of medical tape, countless packages of sterile gauze pads and rolls, alcohol wipes, and an assortment of plasters in various shapes and sizes. Underneath the first aid accoutrements lies a smaller cardboard jewellery box (like the kind with the removable lid that you get with a new charm bracelet). The sinister little silver box holds Molly's personal choice of weapon – a pocketknife – wrapped loosely in a tissue.

She's used the same exact instrument since the very beginning, in fact. The very first time she used it, it was really just a matter of convenience: it was the closest and sharpest thing nearby that wasn't guaranteed to cause an infection. The pocketknife was something her father gave her, for use when he took her hiking or fishing or camping. He trusted her with it, knowing she was never violent toward anyone.

Not toward anyone but herself, Molly later learned.

Molly's ritual is precise. She begins by roughly sterilizing her skin and the instrument with an alcohol wipe, and when she presses the blade to her skin, she never makes more than four or five marks in one area (because otherwise, she'd never be able to blame it on the cat if a situation were to arise). She then rubs the cuts with a new alcohol wipe, letting the solution seep into the now red and prominent little marks. The alcohol burns like hell, in an oddly satisfying way. Molly watches the remnants bleed out for a few precious minutes, irritating it with the alcohol every so often to prolong the experience, before pressing gauze to the affected area. Once the bleeding has slowed, Molly applies a generous amount of antibacterial ointment to the marks before covering them with an appropriately-sized plaster. Sometimes, if the damage is extensive, she tapes gauze to the area in lieu of its flimsy counterpart. When Molly finishes her routine, she puts everything back in its proper place: the pocketknife in its little box, the supplies in the cigar box, the cigar box under the sink, and the evidence in the rubbish bin.

_I shouldn't be using my arms – but I'm running out of space. _Molly looks down at her idiocy – her now fresh cuts, wrapped in rolled gauze, placed on her left wrist this time – _someone is going to notice._

This is one of those times when the Monster rears its ugly head. _No, they won't Molly. There's no one that would even be looking. And, more importantly, there's no one who cares._

_You're right. Absolutely right. I don't need to hide at home – just when I go to work or go out (but how often does that happen, really?)._ Molly sighs, relieved now that she understands that she doesn't have to hide her shame.

After changing out of her day clothes into pyjama trousers and a tee shirt, Molly plops down on her sofa and resolves to watch everything she has recorded in her DVR.

* * *

_Christ, where is this guy? Oh. _Molly spots her target across the dance floor. _Criminals should not be allowed to be that good-looking. _The man is tall and muscular, dressed in clothes that are far too expensive to belong at a club like this. _Sherlock said that he'd be impossible to ambush physically, and he's already gotten away twice. He has body guards at either exit to make sure he's safe. No smart person would try to attack him here._

_Sherlock Holmes will be the fucking death of me._

With more stealth than she thinks she can manage, Molly makes her way across the dance floor. The end result: Molly Hooper grinding her arse against the man's lap. He puts his hands on her hips, swaying her along with him to the beat of the song. She leans back against his chest and looks into his eyes for the first time – and she sees a fiery passion there that should be saved for romance films. He quickly twirls her around and puts his hands on her hips as they were before. This time, however, he leans in, moving one sweaty hand to the nape of her neck. His breath is warm on her skin as he leans in and says, "You're a feisty one, aren't you?" She nods. "Oh, I could just eat you up."

Biting her lip, she turns to him and replies in a breathy tone, "Would you like to?" Without words, he takes her hand and guides it to the growing erection in his trousers. She bites her lip and smirks, grabbing the man's wrist and heading straight for the exit. Before she can wrench the door open, however, he pins her to the wall next to the exit, kissing her furiously. In a tangled mess of limbs and sweaty flesh, they stumble out of the exit, and Molly quickly finds herself pinned to the nearest wall. He cages her in with his arms on either side of her head as he kisses and nips at her neck. She moans for good measure.

Thankfully, before the man has time to go any further, a wonderfully familiar face approaches them from behind. At the touch of handcuffs, the man is surprised and furious, and he looks at Molly as if she were the definition of a succubus. Suddenly, John and Mary are upon her, wrapping her in her jacket from inside. The air is tense, and Mary is the first to speak.

"Who are you and what the hell have you done with Molly Hooper?"

The three laugh. Molly feels like scum. "I think she's still inside somewhere, probably crying in the loo."

Off in the distance, Molly can see Sherlock arguing with Lestrade about something, but what else is new?

"No, but really, Mol – that was incredibly badass." John looks mesmerised. Mary looks smug.

Molly turns to Mary and mutters, "Is it bad that I thought he was a spectacular kisser?"

"That lot usually are. Probably a great shag as well."

"Well, if his dancing is anything to go by..."

* * *

Molly is an hour and a half into her programming when she hears a firm knock at the door. Checking through the peep hole, Molly sees Sherlock standing outside, looking feverish and panicked. She quickly throws on a hoodie and opens the door. Sherlock stumbles inside, panting, and Molly asks, "What's going on, Sherlock?"

"I need..." he pauses to take a single deep breath, steeling himself. He stands up a bit straighter before continuing. "I need to stay here. Just for a little while."

_What's wrong with him? _She watches him closely, cataloguing all of his observable physiological responses: _elevated pulse, moderate to severe mydriasis, sweaty palms, heavy breathing, jaw clenching, over-salivating, tremors in hands... Only an idiot could mistake this for something else. _Molly prays that she's the idiot (who's completely dead wrong).

Nervously, she asks, "What's wrong?"

"Please don't be angry with me. You trust me; I need to know right now that – no matter what I tell you – you'll still trust me." Molly folds her arms across her chest, which Sherlock takes as a sign of reluctant assurance. "I'm... _high," _he starts. _I knew it. _"I'm high and I can't go home because Lestrade will be waiting for me there, not to mention John and Mycroft. It's supposedly a 'danger night' for me, whatever the hell that means..."

"So you want to hide here – to evade getting scolded by Lestrade and John for being a reckless git?"

He looks at her for a moment. "Precisely."

"You do remember that, last time I saw you high, I slapped you thrice across the face, right?"

"Yes, and I do apologise for being an arse that day," he says, dramatically flopping down onto her sofa. "But you, Dr Hooper, you are the most forgiving, most trustworthy person I know. I would say that you're the most loyal as well, but you and I both know that John takes the cake on that one," he remarks, earning a reluctant smirk from Molly. "Regardless, I know that you'll be cross with me for a bit, but your undying urge to take care of me will overwhelm that anger soon enough."

She huffs, not wanting to concede, but he's right. _Of course he's right. _She considers her options before rolling her eyes and grumbling, "Go take a shower. You know where the wash room is – towels are in the cupboard. I'll leave something out in my room for you to wear. When you finish, I'll have tea and something to eat waiting for you in the kitchen. My only condition is that you _must _eat."

"Make that coffee. You know how I take it." Sherlock grins, the pull at the corners of his mouth looking more like a grimace than a smile. "Molly Hooper, I am forever in your debt." In a frenzy, he forcefully plants a kiss on her forehead, then starts down the hall toward the loo.

"I'll put it on your tab." This earns a hearty laugh from Sherlock. She can't help but grin at her own humour.

As she sets out toward her room to go through the clothes that Tom left at her flat, she recounts her conversation with Sherlock. _He's only being kind – and by 'being kind,' I mean not being awful – because he needs me. He needs me how he always does. And of course I'll give him everything he asks for. _She lays out a heather grey tee shirt and a pair of navy blue sweatpants.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock emerges from Molly's bedroom wearing the clothes that she laid out for him. _Damn him for filling out that tee shirt so perfectly. God, I should've given him a looser one... for my sake, at the very least. _He heads into the kitchen, finding a cup of coffee (black, two sugars) waiting for him on the table alongside a plate with a sandwich on it. Grabbing both, Sherlock joins Molly in her sitting room, gently placing his food and drink on the side table before (again) dramatically flopping down onto the sofa next to where Molly sits. He lands close to her, with his head back, resting it on the back of the cushion. He turns his head slowly and looks to Molly, observing her for a long moment before his face slowly breaks out into a smile. However, as quickly as it appeared, it's gone. Sherlock swiftly kicks his feet up onto the coffee table in front of him then moves his plate onto his lap.

As Sherlock is stuffing the sandwich into his mouth, Molly finally works up the courage to pause her programme and ask, "What was it this time?"

"How do you mean?" he replies with a mouthful of sandwich.

"You know exactly what I mean."

He sighs. "There were multiple... _contributing factors_." He looks down to his plate, hiding his face in shame (not shame for doing the drugs, but shame for being forced to explain himself like a child). "Last night, there was a lot of – a lot of heroin and alcohol and marijuana. This morning, I snorted a few lines of cocaine, I think. I... I smoked some crack around early afternoon, too. I chain-smoked cigarette after cigarette before finally deciding to come here. That's all, I swear."

"That's _all? _Sherlock, you're a graduate chemist, for christ's sake – aren't you aware of the number of malevolent drug interactions you are risking by ingesting substances from all different categories at once?"

"I am well aware. The real question is: _do I actually care?" _His tone is condescending, but Molly can't be fooled by his display. He uses this tactic to make himself look less helpless. It's not working – it's only serving to make Molly feel more sad. "The answer, dear pathologist, is _no._"

"That's an awful shame, Sherlock," Molly says as she gets up to get a glass of water for him in the kitchen. "You really probably shouldn't devalue yourself so much; after all, _you _are all that you have." As she hands him the glass and sits back down, she mocks, "'Alone is what I have.' Isn't that right, Sherlock?"

"Not necessarily," he says nonchalantly. "I have you. I alwayshave you. And Mrs. Hudson. And John, for the most part. I've long accepted the fact that I... _need _others to live up to my potential. I no longer feel that I am totally alone. I mean, if anything, I'll always have Mycroft. I mean, I can't seem to get rid of him even when I _want _to."

Molly tries not to show how depleted she feels at his mere presence in her flat. Getting to work, Molly lugs a rather large duffel bag out of the bathroom cupboard, setting it at Sherlock's side. Wordlessly, she sets up an IV to get some fluids into him, watching some more telly until the bag runs out completely. She feels his head for a temperature, trying not to linger too long should he think that she's completely forgiven him. She also takes his blood pressure, her concern for his health slowly increasing. While she works to put the IV equipment away, she brings out a few vials of medication and a few syringes. As she preps each syringe, she says, "Alright, I'm giving you some Paracetamol for the fever." Her voice is flat and emotionless. "And I'll administer a benzodiazepine for the tachycardia and the elevated blood pressure." She finishes and packs up the duffel bag, leaving it next to him just in case she needs it again. From where she kneels on the floor, she sighs, saying, "I don't know what else I'm supposed to do for you. If you have a seizure or a stroke, I'm calling you an ambulance, and that's final."

"Oh Molly, don't doubt yourself so much." He doesn't mean this kindly; he doesn't reassure her for her sake. "I am one-hundred percent confident in your abilities to combat my condition. You're much more competent in the field of emergency medical treatment than you believe yourself to be. You've had plenty of experience with me."

"… Yes, with prying bullets from your body and stitching up gun shot wounds. I shouldn't know how to treat cocaine intoxication at pre-overdose levels – let alone have the emergency equipment at my bloody flat."

"Yes, why do you have those things here? The intravenous fluids I understand, yes, as well as the Paracetamol, but benzodiazepines? That hardly seems like a staple for a first aid kit -"

She cuts him off. "It's for you, you moron! I have Paracetamol tablets in my medicine cabinet, for Christ's sake. I don't need to take it in a syringe when I have a sodding headache." She realizes that she's shouting and tries to lower her voice. Her shout just morphs into a growl. "This bag," she says angrily, pointing at the bag at her feet, "isn't my first aid kit. It's my Sherlock Emergency Kit. There's everything from benzodiazepines to morphine to surgical tools to nicotine patches. It's for you." He blinks at her, unable to respond. She bows her head, shaking it sadly, fighting off tears. _This is supposed to be my day off. _"I'm... I'm sorry, Sherlock. I didn't mean to say it like it's your fault. It's just -"

He interjects, "- that you believe that your great efforts go unnoticed. I apologize, Molly, if I neglected to thank you before."

"You've never thanked me."

He continues hesitantly. "Right. Again, I apologize. And you know that I don't often apologize, Molly." He looks to her for confirmation, and she nods. "There's a reason I come here, of all places. I do have other bolt holes, Molly; I assure you that this isn't the only place I have to go. I come here because I know that here, I'll find more than just shelter and sanctuary. You always take care of me, no matter how angry I make you. You always make sure that I am rested and fed properly. You're one of few that actually gives a damn about my actual well-being."

"I'm glad to know that I've helped." Molly abruptly halts his strange uncharacteristic confession. She sighs sadly, running her fingers through her hair. "OK, Sherlock. Stay, eat whatever you'd like, but please keep drinking water," she says as she rises from her seat. "And no more substances. That means no aspirin or narcotics. Understood?"

"Of course. Where are you going?"

"I'm knackered, and I need some rest. It's my day off, so I can do that." Sherlock looks away, refusing to meet her eyes. _He wants me to stay. _"You're completely capable of taking care of yourself. I'll be in my room if you happen to need me for any reason, though I'm sure you won't. I'll be up in a bit, if you think you'll still be here by then."

He nods in acknowledgement, giving her a strained smile. "All right Molly; sleep well."

She returns his smile before padding down the hall and shutting her bedroom door behind her.


	3. Psychosis & Selfies

**WARNING:** IN-DEPTH PORTRAYAL OF PSYCHOSIS

For those of you who imagine insanity as sitting in a dark closet, rocking back and forth, listening to the deafening voices in your head, urging you to be violent, I'm hoping that this slow descent into madness paints a lovely little picture for you. I've only ever personally dealt with auditory hallucinations and depersonalization as a side affect of my sleep disorder and psychiatric drugs, respectively. So, for those of you who haven't experienced anything of this nature – which is hopefully most of you – pay attention. I find that understanding the way a person's head works in these instances (namely, when having adverse reactions to substances, whether they be legal or otherwise) helps to generate compassion, which is an important type of support for people who are experiencing these symptoms. And because few can articulate what exactly is going on in their heads in that very moment, it's hard to fully comprehend their reactions. So I really hope that this helps you all to understand what the less exaggerated effects of psychosis look like (in the broadest sense, of course).

* * *

As he sits here in the middle of Molly Hooper's flat, his head buzzing with a combination of too many substances and a tugging feeling that he doesn't recognize, Sherlock feels _wrong_. He feels like his flesh is trembling endlessly in an attempt to escape the layer of skin that strangles it, binding it together and containing it. He wants to shed his skin. _No, wait, that's not right. _

_The great Sherlock Holmes will not submit to the throes of psychosis. No, psychosis is for those lacking imagination and diligence. I possess great measures of both._

Sherlock taps his fingers on the armrest, feeling both over-stimulated and bone-chillingly exhausted at the same time. He feels his bones rattle inside of him, his innards trying to keep up with the ceaseless buzzing in his mind and in the flesh just below his skin. He shivers, contemplating the effects of fever, trying to remember if psychosis can be caused by the benzodiazepines, the cocaine, the opium, the fever, or maybe even the combination of drugs in his system.

Sherlock stares at the television screen, suddenly feeling as if the people in the programmes are looking and speaking directly to him. The volume is too high and the people are shouting now. Their eyes – they all look so crazed. Everything else – the dialogue, the plot, the scenes, etcetera – remains the same, save for the maniacal eyes and the loud voices. Sherlock turns off the telly and lies down on the sofa, squeezing his eyes shut in hopes that, if he tries hard enough, he might spontaneously fall unconscious. Needless to say, he isn't successful. _Damn it. Damn it! _

The telly may be turned off, but the laughing track still plays from the speakers. A live audience breaks out in applause sporadically, mocking Sherlock in his endeavours to ignore the psychosis eating away at his insides. _Stop it. Stop it now!_

He zones out for a moment, his gaze fixed on a framed photo on the lower level of Molly's coffee table. The photo depicts Molly and Tom close together, taking a "selfie." They're smiling so brightly, so foolishly as they sit on the front step of Tom's parents' house in the suburbs. Sherlock has deduced that Molly and Tom broke up as a result of one too many domestics. The end was a mutual agreement to part ways for the sake of sanity, and Molly had had a second's worth of sense to return the ring.

With his gaze fixed on this picture, he knows logically that a photograph cannot move. A picture cannot shift. And the people in said picture certainly cannot cry. As he watches, tears form in Molly's eyes in the photo, her cheeks blushing and her eyes growing puffy as tears spill over her wide, picture-perfect smile. _No. Don't cry, Molly. _He doesn't understand why she's crying. Is she trapped, lingering on thoughts of Tom? Does she want him back? _No, they'll never work together. They have bad chemistry – they have since the day they met. _Still, the photo of Molly cries, and Sherlock swears he hears her sniffle. _Stop it. Stop this, right now. You're making no sense. _

_You're making me lose my head. _

There's only one thing to do now, as he pulls his gaze away from the framed picture to look toward Molly's bedroom door. When he looks at the picture again, it looks as it did before it started crying, but that doesn't make him feel any better.

Quietly walking from the couch to knock on her bedroom door, Sherlock waits for Molly to tell him to come in. She asks, "What do you want?" In response to which, Sherlock mutters something unintelligible. "What?"

He slowly turns the door handle and peeks in through the crack of the door. "Molly?" he asks as she turns to face him. At the sight of her stress-worn countenance, he quickly enters the room and shuts the door before fumbling to the bed. He takes a confused Molly's face in his hands, scrutinizing her with fervour.

"What the hell, Sherlock?"

"Please don't cry, Molly," he says at last, swallowing down the pit in his throat and wiping away imaginary tears with the pads of his thumbs. What he doesn't know is that she had been crying, but only for a moment before rolling over and falling asleep. Her face is still red and puffy, but she's not crying anymore.

"I'm not, Sherlock, I'm not. Look," she insists, gripping his wrists as his hands still hold her face. "See?"

Sherlock is panting feverishly. "No, but you were. Why? Why were you crying, Molly?" _Was it him? Was it me? Oh, please don't take him back Molly. He's not good for you. Find someone that deserves you._

"When?"

"Just now, out there, with Tom. But you were smiling. Why were you still smiling?"

She sighs, suddenly realising what has come over him. She should've known that this would happen, given his symptoms. "Oh, Sherlock – you're seeing things."

He ignores her, shaking his head. "No, because you were crying. And I know it makes no sense, but you were smiling and crying and taking a selfie and Tom is no good for you, Molly. He doesn't deserve you."

She just stares into his eyes for a few long moments before very slowly removing his hands from her face. "Come here," she says, motioning to the spot on the bed next to her. "Come on, lie down."

He looks at her, taken aback. "I didn't mean it... Not like that, Molly."

"I know, Sherlock. I know."

His face contorts in confusion. "You're going to... you're going to _hold me_, aren't you?"

She freezes. "If that will help you, I certainly can."

"But it will make you more sad."

As much as he's out of his mind right now, he's still making profound sense. It scares her. "I'll be OK, Sherlock. Just come here."

"OK, Molly. Just please – no more crying. It's trivial and stupid and it ruins your smile. Nobody cries in a selfie." He lies down next to her, facing her, his panic slowly abating.

She smiles softly at him, betraying the way she actually feels. "No crying. Promise." He makes no move to get closer to her, and she feels relieved that he's calming down without her having to make physical contact. That is, until he throws one arm around her waist to rest at the small of her back and hums his contentment.

He pulls her closer, her face against his chest, as he says, "God, you're rubbish at boyfriends, Molly. Maybe you'd ought to go back to girlfriends, like you did in uni."

"Being romantically inept doesn't vary by gender. I'll still be an idiot, regardless of the other person's sex."

Sherlock starts to "This is true, yes. Be a nun, then. Or just be celibate, like me."

She has to hide her shock at his confession. "Maybe that'd be for the best," she says, mostly to herself.

After a moment's pause in which he seems to have fallen asleep, Sherlock mumbles, "My pulse has slowed considerably. You're rather good at this, Dr Hooper."

She mumbles, "It's just biology. Sleep, Sherlock. Doctor's orders."

Sherlock hums in acknowledgement as his breathing slowly fades into soft snoring.

* * *

"God, what time is it?" Sherlock asks as he pads down the hallway toward the kitchen. When he had awoken after a four-hour slumber, he was alone in the bed, lying in a cold sweat. He doesn't remember how he got there, but when he saw that the sun had gone down, and when he smelled Molly's cooking from down the hall, he decided to investigate.

"Late. Dinner? I made pasta."

"Yeah, sure, fine -" he says non-committally.

"Sit."

Dinner is a quiet affair, and Sherlock remains in his chair at the kitchen table as Molly cleans up. After a couple of hours of telly, Molly asks if Sherlock is staying the night. When he says yes, she goes to straighten up her room, to get it ready for him. Sherlock joins her just as she finishes making the bed.

"I changed the sheets, and I got my work clothes out for tomorrow so I don't wake you tomorrow morning. I'll be on the couch tonight, but stay as long as you like. I'll be home from work by tomorrow evening -"

Sherlock interrupts her by grabbing her by the wrist. "Molly – sit." They sit at the edge of her bed, Molly looking everywhere but at Sherlock. She nervously toys with the elastic edges of her hoodie sleeves. He clears his throat. "Molly, I – I've noticed, erm," he stops, rewording his statement. "Why do you – why have you been hurting yourself?"

"What?" Tactic #1: play dumb. Playing dumb doesn't usually work on Sherlock Holmes.

He raises an eyebrow at her in response. "Divest yourself of the sweatshirt." She sits, frozen in place. He rolls his eyes, huffing, "Off, Molly – you're not making it any better by hiding."

For the life of her, she can't remember Tactic #2.

She mutters, "No, I – it's nothing. I'm just – it's cold, Sherlock."

"It's July."

She stares at him, horrified beyond her wits, for a long moment. But without any more verbal protest, Molly rises from the bed and hesitantly pulls the garment up over her head. She has no time to prepare herself before Sherlock takes hold of both of her hands, turning them over to reveal her damaged forearms. He removes his grip on her right hand to trace his finger around the gauze covering her newest set of marks on her left forearm. Molly immediately snatches her right arm away, burying her face in the crook of her elbow, hoping to muffle any sobs that she might accidentally release. She turns away, unable to look as Sherlock examines her handiwork with cold, apathetic eyes. Tears stream down her face freely; she can't hold those back any longer.

"Molly." She turns to see him still holding her by the hand, now looking up at her with those same cold, apathetic eyes. He gestures for her to sit back down. She reaches for her hoodie, but he stops her. "Leave it off." When she sits back down at the edge of the bed, her hand still gripped tightly by his, she can't look at him. His left hand strokes absently over her long-healed scars, in an almost-warm way. But Molly isn't fooled by his gesture.

"Are you going to scold me?" she asks tearfully, finally having worked up the guts to speak. She doesn't much trust her voice to say anything else at this point.

He shakes his head, looking down at her forearm. "Years, Molly – so many years. Am I, you know, the first to -?" She nods, biting her lip. "I see. Not even... not even Tom?"

"No. No one."

"Today. You did this today, twice. Once when I was asleep." She doesn't respond at all, because it's not a question. "Why? Was it, because, you know -"

"No, Sherlock. It wasn't because of you."

"No, that's not what I – I mean," he starts.

She shakes her head. "No. You mean was there anything you could've done? Was it because of something you said? No."

He has the good sense to look uncomfortable. "Last night at the club, I saw," he gestures to her arms, "and I was going to say something, but then today you were being so kind, so I was going to return the favour by not bringing it up. But then, after I woke up, I noticed that you'd done so within the past hour or so, and I just couldn't stomach it."

"How? How did you notice?"

"Oh, Molly – don't be daft. Your loo is like a crime scene. And you flinch more than usual when it's so, you know, _raw._"

"OK, so – what? What exactly was the point of bringing this up?" She's not angry at him, per se – more just at the fact that now, after all of these years, just as she starts to believe that she's safe from scrutiny, somebody finds out her secret. This tone of voice that she's now using – this malicious, defensive attitude – is something completely foreign to Molly Hooper's outward personality.

He looks at her, appalled. He cannot be deterred by her complete change in demeanour. "You don't see a problem here?"

She laughs darkly. "You're such a hypocrite!" He's taken aback by this. "How is this any different from what you do? No, you know what? It's not like what you do at all. What you do is reckless and dangerous and so incredibly stupid. At least _this _habit is... manageable."

He stutters, "You're kidding yourself, thinking that. It's no better than the drugs. This is just... it's _savage, _Molly. What the hell made you think to do this in the first place? Molly, this is – it's so... God, look at yourself! You can't keep doing this!"

"Don't, Sherlock. Really – don't."

"Oh, and why the bloody hell not? You think I can just... _ignore _this? Let it go?"

"Yes! Exactly! I don't know if you're doing this out of guilt, or..."

"Or because you're my – my _friend_? Because I refuse to stand idly by and watch as you _destroy_ yourself?"

"You don't even _like _me_, _for fuck's sake – let alone think of me as a _friend_. God, why do you care? You don't. That right there – that's not caring, Sherlock. That's guilt." He looks at her, furious. He can't think of anything to say. "I don't need a _junkie _lecturing me about my habits."

His voice is quiet when he says, "Let me help you, Molly."

"And how exactly do you think you're going to do that? Kiss it and make it all better?"

"No, I -"

"Just drop it, Sherlock. It's fine. Don't tell anyone. We won't have to talk about this ever again. You know what? Just delete that whole conversation from your memory. It's just a bunch of wasted space anyway. You have your demons, and I have mine. I can set aside my anger towards yours if you can do the same. Good night, Sherlock."

With that, Molly leaves Sherlock in her bedroom, the door being the only thing between them. Sherlock is absolutely fuming, and Molly is crying angrily, sobbing silently in her agony. Neither understands the argument entirely, and that just makes the flame burn all the brighter.


	4. Trust Me

If there is a god, they'll see to it that Sherlock Holmes follows Molly's directions word for word. They'll make sure that Sherlock forgets, deletes all of the information from his mind, and never speaks of it again.

Then again,_ "the universe is rarely so lazy."_

Molly thinks it's a shame that their first real moment of physical intimacy (platonic as it may have been) was spoiled just hours later by that earth-shattering confrontation. She reasons that she could live on just that intimacy. She could have him, sans the romance and the sexual encounters, so long as she gets to lie in his arms like that every night. She could handle his antics and his erratic behaviour, she could handle his eating/sleeping habits (or the lack thereof), and she could most certainly handle him during both his highs (literally speaking) and his lows (metaphorically speaking).

What's worse is that he'll never remember that psychotic episode that he had before falling asleep in Molly's arms. He'll never remember falling asleep in Molly's arms, for that matter.

So basically, in his mind, none of that intimacy even happened in the first place. _Lovely. Finally, after years of chasing him, I got to hold him like I wanted to, and he doesn't even remember._

_Maybe that's for the best._

_God, that could be my catchphrase. "Maybe that's for the best." Make do, Molly Hooper. You're too much of a coward to fight for yourself anyway._

Thankfully, Sherlock is still holed up in Molly's bedroom when she gets up for work the following day. She assumes he's asleep, given the amount of drugs in his system, plus the fact that not a single sound comes through that door. Molly is equally as thankful when she comes home to an empty flat – save for the presence of her cat, Toby, of course. Upon her return, Molly finds nothing extremely out of the ordinary to speak of – except maybe that her bed is made, her Sherlock Emergency Kit is put away, and she's out of milk.

When she changes out of her work clothes into pyjama shorts and a tee shirt, she removes the gauze pads taped to her arms to allow the wounds to breathe. She'll replace them later, but for now, she marvels at the sight of the just-closed cuts. Usually, the sight of the damage she inflicts is enough to sate the Monster. Oddly enough, looking at it now only makes her want to add to it. _I did it twice yesterday, and once a few days earlier. When did this become such a frequent transgression? A fourth time wouldn't hurt. I mean – it would, but that's kind of the point though, isn't it?_

_Not the arms though – no, I'll need to wait a while before I can use those spots again. So, where then? Where was I before I started using the arms? Abdomen, I believe. Eh, probably not a great idea to do that during the summer – where I'm sure to sweat. I want to bleed, not get an infection, after all._

_Upper thighs it is._

When Molly goes into the loo to begin her ritual, she remembers what Sherlock said to her last night: _"Your loo is like a crime scene." _She looks around for evidence that she may have left behind at some point. _More like the rubbish bin is like a crime scene. Drama queen. _Rolling her eyes, Molly disregards his statement. She brings out the cigar box and goes through her supplies, taking out the things she'll need momentarily. However, when she finally pulls out the little box that holds her weapon, Molly immediately notices that something is amiss. When she removes the lid, her heart sinks into the pit of her stomach, and she suddenly cannot breathe.

Inside of the box, a little gold-toned key sits where her pocket knife belongs. Underneath the key sits a small note card, folded in half, with Sherlock's characteristic scrawl written in thick black ink. The note reads:

_Dr Hooper,_ _I know that your pocket knife has much more meaning to it than meets the eye. I also know that it's been your weapon of choice since you first started this morbid coping mechanism of yours. Therefore, one may conclude that, devoid of your sacred pocket knife, you'll be unable to replicate your ritual as a result._ _I came up with a solution that I believe could be seamlessly executed, so long as it is handled properly. Your blade is safe. Should you want it back, which I know you will, you can find it at Baker Street. You'll need to have the key; I won't tell you what it's for (spoilers!), but you'll know exactly when to use it when the time comes._ _I have faith in you, Molly Hooper. I have faith in your fortitude and your willpower. That should mean something, seeing as how sometimes – most of the time – I don't even have faith in myself. No, but I have faith in you._ _Trust me on this one. I know I've given you no reason to. But what makes you so brilliant, Dr Hooper, is that I know that you'll find it in your heart to trust me._ _- SH_

* * *

"Ah, Molly – I was beginning to suspect you'd need some more coaxing to draw you here, but, as it turns out, your depravity was enough after all."

Molly had been nervous moments ago, as Mrs. Hudson led her up the steps to 221B, but now, she's just furious again.

"I came here to talk to you because – how _dare _you play games with me, Sherlock Holmes. How _dare _you butt your head into my personal business, invading my privacy and taking what belongs to _me._"

"Correction, dear Molly – you came here for your blade." She gives him a glare that could take down a king. "And rightfully so. I do apologize for having to breach your privacy; it was a necessary evil to execute my plan. And I think, Dr Hooper, that you will understand eventually, and that you'll agree to the arrangement I've worked out. After all, this isn't a game to me, Molly. It pains me just as well."

"How do you mean?"

He holds up a finger, gesturing for her to _hush. _"All in good time."

It's in this moment that Molly spots the small box-shaped object – which is about the size of a shoebox – perched atop the mantel. The object has a hinge (_so the front must be the opening mechanism) _and – _jackpot! _There's a keyhole underneath the latch that opens the door. _The key._

"Oh, very good, Dr Hooper. You're catching on quickly." Sherlock watches as the cogs turn rapidly in Molly's head.

Wordlessly, she approaches the box, feeling elated in a very literal sense – as if her body were floating like a helium balloon. That feeling quickly dissipates as Molly realizes that her key doesn't fit in the lock.

"What the -"

As Sherlock ushers her out of the flat, he rattles off instructions to her. "Go home, mull it over for a bit. Let me know when you finally understand. Don't bother until you do. Ta."

When he shuts the door in her face, she finally realizes that she's supposed to be infuriated with him.

* * *

Several hours pass agonising over the subtext of Molly's encounter with Sherlock before it dawns on her to search her own flat. After quite a bit of looking, she finds what she's looking for under her bed. Apparently, Sherlock hid a duplicate safe (like the one on his mantel) in Molly's flat. The only apparent difference between the two objects is that the key that Sherlock gave her actually fits in the lock to this one. And what she finds inside makes her heart wrench.

It takes Molly a moment to identify each object inside the black plastic case that she finds inside the locked box. _What is this? A – a medical kit of some sort? _Molly is not very well-versed on drug culture or paraphernalia, but she knows enough to recognize that this is Sherlock's "kit." This is his go-to for all things self-destructive.

On the floor of her bedroom, Molly lays out each item, analysing them one by one. She finds a rubber-banded bundle of syringes, a refillable lighter, a very weathered crack pipe, cotton balls, rolling papers, razors, a thin belt, emergency cash, and tiny bags of assorted substances. There are over two dozen bags laid out for Molly to see, each one with a handwritten label denoting its contents. A majority of the substances are in pill form, while there are a few bags of powder or rocks. Some of the bags have more inside them than others; for example, the bag of powder marked "heroin" is full and worn from being filled time and time again, but the bags marked "LSD" and "MDMA" have only one to two tablets each.

She thinks she's starting to understand now – but it's all just information that needs to be pieced together.

_Think, think! Why would he lock this in a safe under my bed? He could always just get more supplies. But why – what would he gain from this? Better yet, why would he deliberately undergo self-sabotage to impede his habits? It's not like he really wants to give them up. He likes them. He doesn't need them. _

_What motive could he possibly have to play such a convoluted, intricate game with me?_

_But none of this answers the initial dilemma: where the hell is my pocketknife? It's probably locked in the safe at Baker Street. He must have the key, too. He's the only one with access to my blade. And I'm the only one with access to his kit. _

_Oh. _Molly's head is spinning. She quickly shoots a text to his mobile, saying, _"I get it now."_

His reply comes quickly. _"But do you really? How do I know you're not just bluffing?"_

She doesn't think before sending her reply. _"Because I no longer bear any malice toward you, and for some twisted reason, I have the vague urge to thank you."_

An hour passes by slowly, and she doesn't get a reply.

Instead, she gets a knock at the door.

* * *

For the record, I had to do quite a bit of research for this story – namely on drugs, chemical compounds, and drug paraphernalia. I wanted this to be as accurate as a work of fanfiction could possibly be.


	5. High On Molly

**WARNING:** TOOTH-ROTTING FLUFF

* * *

Molly hastily returns Sherlock's kit to the safe so she can answer the knock at the front door. This is unnecessary, however, as Sherlock just lets himself in moments later anyway.

"Molly?"

"I'll be out in a minute," she shouts, before stuffing the remainder of the contents into the safe and pushing it back under her bed.

When she enters her sitting room, she finds Sherlock sitting on the sofa with an entirely apathetic air about him. "So?" he asks, initiating what Molly expects to be a very intense confrontation. "I told you not to bother me until you understood."

"And I think I do." She approaches him slowly, hesitantly, reaching out to find the discreet little chain that she suspected would be clasped around his neck. She draws it out from beneath his collar, finding a key that's identical to hers hanging around his neck like a pendant.

"Very good, Dr Hooper. I'm almost impressed." Usually, she would scoff at his condescension, but Molly knows that he's only trying to cover up any emotional vulnerability that he may have exposed in the process of this game that he now plays with her. "I'm sure you have questions."

_Where to begin?_

"It'd probably be best if you just start from the beginning."

"Very well," he sighs. "I couldn't let you continue on the twisted path you were travelling – not alone, at least. I've felt that before, Molly, and I wouldn't wish that upon my worst enemies. Not even Mycroft," he jests, causing her look of woe to shift to that of a reluctant smile. "I know from past experience that recovery is impossible on your own. Not only do others stand tall when your resolve begins to crumble, but they also fuel the will that you have to succeed.

"You pointed out that my vices are equally as destructive, if not more so, than yours. I realized then that I'm not your responsibility to take care of whenever I'm in too deep with the drugs. I just _keep doing it," _he says frustratedly, "without paying any mind to how much I'm taking from you each time I show up battered or broken or bruised. It's not fair to you, Molly. I know it's not. So when I discovered your secret, I decided that, maybe – just maybe – we could do this together. I'm willing to stop with the drugs if you're willing to stop hurting yourself."

"But maybe I don't want to," she retorts.

"I don't want to either. Do you think I care enough for my well-being to want to give up the drugs? The answer is no. No – but _you _want me to give up the drugs. _I_ want you to give up the self-harm. Hopefully I haven't miscalculated – I believed your attachment to me would outweigh your attachment to your pocketknife. So basically, if you stop, I stop. And we are both responsible to see to it that the other doesn't relapse – hence the keys and the locked safes. The conditions are simple, really: either of us can take back our belongings at any point, but in doing so, we would then have to return the other person's belongings as well. So if you want your blade back, you must return my kit – which will give me access to my vices. And if I want my kit back, I have to return your pocketknife, and I'm sure you wouldn't hesitate to use it. We can give up our vices for the sake of the other person. Do you understand?"

Molly pauses for a long moment. "But why?"

"How do you mean?"

"Why the hell do you care so much?"

"Do you think I'm incapable of caring?"

"Caring for me, yes."

He gives her a sad, defeated look coupled with a deflated sigh. "I'm so sorry you think that way, Molly. I thought that I'd proven by now how much I value you as a friend."

"I thought you valued me as a convenience."

"I – I understand how one might see it that way. But I swear to you, Dr Hooper, that this is all coming straight from my cold, shrivelled-up, high-functioning sociopathic heart. Why else would this game be so elaborate?"

"I wish you'd stop calling yourself that. 'High-functioning sociopath.' You and I both know that that's far from the truth."

He gulps. "It keeps others from questioning my motives and burdening me with sentiment." Molly smiles sadly in response. "Still, not even I am impregnable." Molly finds that it's becoming harder and harder to breathe as Sherlock approaches her, situating himself just centimetres away from her. He takes her left hand and pushes up her sleeve, revealing both old and new marks of her self-destruction. He begins planting soft, feather-light kisses up her forearm. He doesn't let go of her hand. "We're all fighting wars, Molly, and we all have our battle scars to prove it. Some of us just wear them on the outside rather than on the inside. This -" he says, gesturing to her scars, "this may look to you like cowardice, but I assure you, wearing your heart on your sleeve and wearing your battle scars on the outside for the world to see is the bravest thing anyone could possibly do." He brushes stray hairs away from her face as tears begin streaming down her cheeks. "You may feel invalidated – you may feel like you've lost. I don't see it that way. I see these scars as trophies of every battle you've ever fought. And it's difficult for me to understand how someone with such a huge heart would not have enough room inside for herself as well."

Molly looks down as she sobs, not wanting to show Sherlock her shattered composure. She doesn't expect to be engulfed by his embrace as he holds her tightly against his chest. When her sobs eventually let up, she smiles up at him, and with a soft, humbled countenance, he leans in, closes his eyes, and kisses her.

Molly gasps in surprise but quickly reciprocates, taking Sherlock's face in her hands as they kiss tenderly. The kiss deepens, drawing moans from both parties, and Molly can't help but cry even harder. Sherlock pulls away just so, keeping their foreheads pressed together as he mumbles, "Am I really that bad?"

They laugh synchronously, Molly's tears only worsening. "I'm... these are happy tears, I suppose. I don't know, really. I've never felt this way before."

"Nor have I. I've never _worried _so much about someone else in my entire life." He smiles, deflecting the unease behind his statement. Molly can tell that it's genuine, though – after all, only his most genuine smiles cause wrinkles in the outside corners of his eyes.

"You do realize that – if this is all just for a bloody case or an experiment or something – I won't hesitate to rip your heart clean out of your chest, throw it on the ground, and stomp all over it?"

He clears his throat uncomfortably. "I – god... _Why, _Molly? _Why _do you refuse to believe me?"

Molly doesn't hesitate. "Because you are _selfish, _Sherlock. You're not getting anything out of this 'game' at all."

He's not angry like she'd expect him to be. "I get peace of mind, Molly. I get to know that you are safe – that you're not harming yourself, causing more suffering – when I can't be there to hold you and make sure that you're all right."

"Since when have you wanted to _hold _anybody?"

"Not anybody. Just you."

She shakes her head. "Then hold me, you clot." He smiles and presses his lips to the top of her head, drawing her in closer, tightening his embrace. After a moment, Molly pulls back and says, "No, wait – I take it back. Kiss me again. I liked that."

Sherlock chuckles as he surprises Molly by sweeping her up into his arms. He gives her a quick peck before carrying her down the hallway, into her bedroom, laying her down safely on the bed. His eyes are intense as he crawls onto the bed, looming over her. His breathing is ragged and his pupils are blown.

_"Sherlock," _Molly says breathlessly. She's not sure why.

Hearing his voice causes Sherlock's mind to go into a frenzy, torn between desperate arousal, emotional exhaustion, and something quite resembling love. He shudders. _"Molly," _he breathes in reply. She pulls him down to kiss him deeply, tenderly, and he lowers his body until they're pressed together, chest to chest. He pulls out of the kiss with something like regret on his features. "I – I'm sorry, Molly. I'm not very good at this. I mean, I've, you know, _done this_ before, but this level of actual _intimacy_ is far beyond my level of expertise."

She smiles softly. "You're doing fine so far. You can't disappoint me, Sherlock." She caresses his cheek.

"But you'll tell me if I do something wrong?"

"But I know you won't. Don't think about it too much – just follow your heart and do what feels right."

"My heart is telling me to get as close to you as physically possible," he mumbles, drawing himself in even closer than before, "and to snog you senseless."

Molly giggles. They kiss playfully until Molly's tongue sneaks out to graze Sherlock's bottom lip, tacitly asking for entrance. With slight hesitance, Sherlock grants her request, unsure of exactly what he's supposed to be doing. His tongue quickly learns how to dance with Molly's, exploring out of its own curiosity. When Molly's grip finds the prominent bulge in the front of Sherlock's trousers, adding slight pressure, Sherlock groans into the kiss. "Mmm... _Mmmmmm." _They both pant in unison as Molly's hand teases Sherlock's erection. He pulls away slightly, clenching his eyes shut, _"Molly. _God, I didn't mean -"

"No, I – Sherlock, I want to. _Please_."

"Are you sure?"

"I am. Are _you?_"

"You are going to be the death of me."

"Now, wouldn't _that _be ironic?"

He smirks in response as he begins trailing kissing down Molly's jaw and neck, eliciting the most delectable whimpers from her mouth. "Quite so." Things become heated as Molly grips Sherlock's sides, repeatedly pulling his hips to hers. He moans over and over, so unfamiliar with this type of sensation. It's different from regular masturbation when every nerve in one's body is alight with arousal. There's a certain _need _that Sherlock has never felt before – and the feeling he gets from doing this with Molly feels an awful lot like being high. Maybe he _is _high – high on ecstasy. High on Molly.

* * *

A/N:

I had the opportunity, and by god, I took it.  
Puns are my weakness.


	6. Virtues

**WARNING:** EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT

* * *

Molly would never have expected Sherlock to respond to her little... _habit –_ the way that he did. She never would've expected to end up underneath him, subject to his piercing gaze and his inquisition. When he rolled up her sleeves and looked upon her bare, scarred skin with nothing more than cold, harsh apathy and cruel contempt in his eyes, she never even dreamed that his actions were borne of sentiment.

Most of all, Molly would never have expected this savage, desperate, passionate tangle of flesh. Articles of clothing are removed one by one, both participants feeling the carnal need for skin-to-skin contact. Thoughts and judgement are clouded with something much more intoxicating; neither Molly nor Sherlock can even bother to care.

When only one layer of clothing is left on each of their bodies, Sherlock can no longer hide his nervous movements. Both his fears and his desperation are tangible now. Molly can tell that he's struggling to move any further, so she does the honours of unclasping her bra and sliding it down her arms, discarding the garment somewhere nearby. Sherlock's eyes go wide and he swallows hard at the sight of Molly's bare chest, revelling in its beauty. He stutters, searching every corner of his huge brain for the right words. He settles on, "I – speechless. I'm trying to formulate a sentence to sum up what I see before me at this very moment, but I can't think of anything to say that would even begin to do your image any justice." He begins kissing down her neck to her chest, his fingers lightly grazing her sides as his lips land in the valley just between her breasts.

"Not too small, then?" She bites her lip, realizing that she sounds like she's fishing for compliments.

"That may be so," he mumbles, much to Molly's disbelief. He slowly looks up and finally meets her gaze, a devilish grin creeping onto his features. His eyes shine bright as he continues. "But your breasts -" he says, bringing his hands up to cup them lightly, "your _lovely _breasts – don't appeal to me merely because of their _proportion_," he scoffs. "No – I don't care that they're small. It's because they're attached to _you _that makes me adore them so."

As he hides his face between her breasts again, Molly thumps him playfully on the side of his head, effectively messing up his curls. Sarcastically, she quips, "You really know how to make a girl feel special, don't you?"

"Was that... was that wrong?" She smiles at his confused expression. "I was just being honest," he says defensively.

She takes his head in her hands and drags him back up to eye level, unable to hold back the idiotic grin gracing her features. She kisses him soundly before saying, "No, that was... thank you, Sherlock – for being honest, I mean. I appreciate that."

He smiles in response before returning to the path he'd just been taking down Molly's front. He carefully avoids Molly's nipples as he fondles and caresses her breasts, giving each his full attention, before slinking downward a bit more. He presses his cheek to her abdomen, basking in her warmth, before taking notice of the scars that Molly has been hiding on her hips. She unconsciously holds her breath in suspense, fearful of Sherlock's inevitable response. She just hopes that he won't get angry again.

No – instead, he kisses the skin softly, lightly, straying a bit from Molly's belly to leave lingering touches on her forearms too. "Where else?" She closes her eyes, biting her tongue. "_Molly,_" he urges. "Where else have you done this?"

"M – my thighs. That's all."

He nods curtly, professionally almost, before moving further down her figure. When he finds the scars – worse than he'd expected them to be – he traces the lines with his fingertips, mesmerized by the faint patterns and the stories left in their wake. He closes his eyes and huffs, mostly out of sorrow. He also feels a twinge of remorse and guilt, and slight disappointment as well. Molly can read his expression like letters on a neon sign. She always can. He ruminates for a few moments, his thoughts lingering on each scar – each story in which he failed to notice her suffering. It's silly, really, to blame himself – after all, a single person can only prevent so much damage. But now that Sherlock has accepted the weight of his sentiment, it's hitting him like a freight train.

Molly feels relief wash over her whole being when Sherlock turns away from the damage, but a new type of anxiety takes hold of her when his attentions are redirected to her knickers. He looks to the little piece of fabric with a mix of intrigue and challenge, stalking the offending garment as if it were prey. Sherlock inches closer and closer, feeling the heat radiating from what lies just beneath the surface. He glances up to meet Molly's gaze before swiftly removing the garment and diving in wholeheartedly.

"Holy – _mmm, Sherlock. _Oh, god. _Please." _She lets out a throaty groan/whimper when Sherlock unceremoniously slips one finger into her. He moves the digit with practised ease, playing Molly like he would his violin.

He can't help but voice his awe. "Oh, _Molly. _You are absolutely exquisite – delicious," he hums, and she can't manage a reply.

He adds a second finger and gives her one final lick before moving back up her body, his fingers still carrying out their rhythm. He hovers over her, watching her face contort in pleasure – pleasure for which _he _is responsible. It's a heady feeling, to say the least – intoxicating, to say the most.

They pant in unison as Molly pulls him down to kiss him, made slightly uncomfortable by his scrutiny. She doesn't expect to take pleasure in the taste of herself on his tongue, but for some reason, it only adds to her arousal. It's not that it tastes _good, _per se – it's mostly just a reminder of where that tongue has been and what that tongue has done.

As Sherlock holds her close, he can read Molly like a book. He can tell when Molly's pleasure has spiked and he learns quickly what she does and doesn't like. He can tell that she's turned on by the prospect of receiving oral stimulation, but the act itself doesn't really do much for her physical pleasure. His fingers, however – something bigger and more tangible – can drive her straight to the edge and can keep her dwindling there for an eternity. This is all so very _spectacular_ in Sherlock's eyes. This is a whole new field to master, a whole new set of talents to learn and to practice. _Oh, yes. This will do quite nicely._

"Sherlock..." Molly moans. "Sh – Sher... _Christ_, Sherlock."

"What do you want, Dr Hooper?" He knows what she wants. Of course he does.

"You... God, you, Sherlock."

"Tell me, Molly. Tell me what you want from me."

Molly bites her lip. This is difficult, you see – because saying, _"Fuck me, Sherlock" _is very different from saying, _"Make love to me, Sherlock." _And Molly can't decide between the two. There are implications for each, but he's obviously expecting one of the two in particular. _Think, Molly! What do you know about Sherlock and romance? Nothing. No one knows, actually. His game was elaborate and bordering on fairy-tale, as fucked up as that may seem. Wait – fuck. He doesn't curse. He's not opposed to it – it's just not a part of his vocabulary. He wouldn't be expecting it. So, the latter, then._

She smiles. "Make love to me, Sherlock Holmes."

He smiles like she's never seen before. He pulls back, drawing his fingers from her and sucking them clean with a look of ecstasy. Whilst he removes his pants, he says, "With pleasure." Molly regards his physique with awe, and he pretends not to notice. Checking the bedside table – _ah, yes_ – Sherlock finds what he's looking for: a condom.

"How did you know -"

"Where else do people keep them?" He smirks as he closes the drawer and kneels back on the bed, but before he can take action, Molly takes the little foil packet from his hand. She swiftly rips it open with her teeth and slowly rolls it onto his length, noting how all of the oxygen in his lungs seems to suddenly evacuate on contact. His head lolls forward and his eyes clench shut as he tries to gather himself.

"Sit," Molly orders, pointing to the vacant space by the headboard. Wordlessly, he follows her command, and she eagerly straddles his lap. She doesn't take her eyes from his when she takes him in hand, stroking lightly. He moves his hands to rest on her hips, gripping them tightly, betraying the look of calm on his face. Molly smiles and kisses him once more, and both of them watch as she positions him at her entrance. All breathing ceases when she slowly sinks down onto his length.

Sherlock groans loudly and clenches his eyes shut, his jaw hanging agape. Molly stays still, her breathing laboured in an attempt to calm herself. "Look at me," Molly mutters, and when Sherlock opens his eyes, nothing but pure, carnal lust is apparent.

"_Molly_," Sherlock begins, urgency clear in his tone. He can't finish his sentence.

Molly smiles softly. "It's okay," she says calmly. "I'll be gentle."

"Don't you _dare_, Dr Hooper" he says, grinning deviously.

She chooses that moment to lift herself up and to begin moving.

* * *

_Oh god, _Sherlock thinks to himself. He's outwardly silent, save for a few moans and grunts. But inside, he's screaming bloody murder at the top of his lungs. _THIS IS – OH MY GOD._

_Molly – oh, Molly. Sweet, loving, beautiful Dr Molly Hooper. So tight, so close, so intimate – unlike every preconceived notion I may have had about sex. That's what I get for only ever having sex while high, I suppose – with people that I felt nothing for. I expected that it would just be messy and I'd be stuck breathing someone else's air while my body was being coated with their sweat. This is nothing like that. If anything, it's like a breath of fresh air, and the mix of sweat gathering on my chest is most welcome. It's so unlike manual stimulus – and I'll never be able to kid myself again thinking that. No, this is more. So much more._

_I don't remember it ever feeling like _this. _I don't remember this strange pulling sensation coming from deep within me. I only remember chasing release and craving more. This – this is so much worse; this could be even more addictive._

_And the worst part?_

_I don't give a damn._

Everything is communicated via eye contact. Molly looks like she's holding back, so Sherlock quickly flips them over, staying perfectly seated inside of her, before roughly pounding into her in his own rhythm of thrusts. "Oh _god_, Molly -" he whines, and Molly moans dramatically in return.

"God, fuck me Sherlock – harder, faster... _let go._"

And he does.

* * *

_There is no fucking way that this is his first time being intimate. No – for your first time, there's a lot of awkward fumbling and unsure movements, and it's always over far too quickly. It's supposed to be that way, at least. Christ, there's no way in hell that this man making love to me – with as much passion and agility as an experienced lover, I might add – has never done this before._

_So I guess he must have some experience in this field, however clinical or detached that experience may be. Did he experiment, then? Did he trade sexual favours for his next fix? Did someone teach him how to treat a lover? Or is he really just a quick learner?_

_Hell, my first time, the boy accidentally unseated himself at least a dozen times before staying with a rhythm long enough to bring himself to climax. Oh, and of course, I didn't even get an orgasm out of it – which should have been expected, really. Few men have actually achieved that much from me. Being with Sherlock is nothing like my first time – or like any lover I've ever had, for that matter. No, no one has ever been able to learn my body so quickly, and no one has ever held me here on the edge of climax. Oh, and he will most definitely bring me to climax. I know he will. He's just waiting for the right moment – something that every man I've ever been with has overlooked._

Molly can _feel_ this – all of it. Every little emotion – she can feel the meaning, the passion behind each and every one of his deep, vehement thrusts. Oh, and he means them. It's wordless and therefore carries little merit, but he means everything that his hips and eyes are communicating to hers.

"_Christ_, Molly," Sherlock grunts at a change of angle. He finds her g-spot, hitting it repeatedly, and each time he manages to hit it, it adds more to Molly's pleasure. Molly is clenching around him, left a writhing mess from the sensations. "Oh God," he grunts almost painfully. His hips smash to hers, pressed against her there for just a moment as he grinds his pelvis to hers with shallow, hard thrusts. Molly lies there helplessly, moaning as Sherlock kisses her neck, grinds into her clit, and hits her g-spot simultaneously. He does this over and over for what feels like both an eternity and no time at all, before he pulls back and pushes back into her, hard. He's snarling, gritting his teeth as his orgasm approaches. "Come with me, Molly."

His sensual voice is like a trigger, and as he resumes the grinding and the shallow thrusts from before, he brings her over the edge. He pulls back and pounds into her mercilessly as he sees her through the throes of her orgasm, revelling in the pulsing tightness surrounding his length. His thrusts lose their cadence before he slams into her one final time, roaring and crying out as he spills into the condom. He rides the aftershocks with his mouth hanging open and his eyes clenched shut, his body convulsing on its own accord.

When he collapses on top of Molly, he accepts her lazy, messy kisses before pulling out and disposing of the condom. With that out of the way, he returns to Molly's side, gesturing that they should get under the covers. He lies next to her, holding her to his chest and stroking her soft hair mindlessly.

"I think I'm..." Sherlock begins, clearing his throat. With more sureness, he continues. "I think I have _feelings_ for you, Dr Hooper."

Molly looks up at his stoic visage, shocked by his nonchalant tone and his frankly blunt statement. "Well I'd bloody well _hope_ so!" He looks to her, confused. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be in my bed, enjoying post-coital bliss after having life-altering sex."

He blinks at her. "That was redundant, Molly. And I'd never actually _admitted_ to having those feelings. Not until now, of course."

She strokes his cheek. "I knew anyway. You didn't have to tell me."

There's a long pause before Sherlock begins musing aloud, "And to think – we were brought together in the end by our worst vices."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that." He looks to her questioningly. "The drug use isn't your worst vice. Not by a long shot."

"Oh, really? Then what, pray tell, is my worst vice?"

She ponders this for a moment. "You have quite a few, like recklessness, cruelty, seclusion, and blatant disregard for social customs. But your worst, I'd say, is your ignorance." Molly knows by now that Sherlock is hardly ever hurt by insults of this nature. She's just 'being honest.'

Sherlock considers her evaluation for a moment. "I didn't think of those."

"You were thinking of the tangible sort. You disregarded the ones that involve internal behaviours."

Sherlock regards her with awe – he _continues_ to be impressed by her depth of thought, time and time again, just when he believes that she has nothing left to show him. That's a foolish notion, really. Molly's greatness is infinite. Sherlock sees that now.

"Well what about you? Is your, you know," he gestures to her scars, "your biggest vice?"

She gives him a steady look. "No, not exactly. I mean, I have other vices, too. There's the self-harm, chiefly, but there's also the social isolation, my love for dead things, and my inability to let go of things and people. The worst one – I think I now realise – is my self-hatred."

Sherlock makes a sort of _hmph _sound in agreement, nodding his head. "Now _that, _I concur with. It's a great hindrance in your achieving success."

Molly nods carefully. "I know. I do know." She feels sorrow creeping in; it's the worst kind – the stabbing-in-the-gut kind. "Hold on, I'm going to run to the loo. Don't you _dare _move, Mr Holmes." She points an accusing finger at him, smirking as she removes herself from the room to go use the toilet.

* * *

God, _why _did she have to leave him here on his own? Now all he can do is _think, _and that is just _agonising_. Downright painful is what it is.

_She's right about me, isn't she? She said, "recklessness, cruelty, seclusion, and blatant disregard for social customs." That sounds about right, I suppose. But "ignorance?" That surely cannot be my greatest vice. Stubbornness, maybe. No, not even that. Maybe she's right. She probably is._

_Especially when it comes to her own vices – "self-harm, social isolation, a love for dead things, and an inability to let go of things and people." That paints a pretty accurate picture of Molly's inner turmoil. But oh, she's very clever – even she can see that "self-hatred" is her biggest vice. Of course it is. But that is hardly going to change._

_But then again, the same can be said for my ignorance, I suppose._

_Maybe that's what makes them the worst vices of all._

* * *

When Molly returns to the bedroom, Sherlock asks, "What about our virtues?"

He wonders aloud if, given that their vices brought them together, does that mean that their virtues kept them apart? Molly regards him as if he's a toddler that just made a profoundly mature statement. But of course, the world isn't black and white. Just because one brought them together doesn't mean that the other pushed them apart. But really, those vices that they previously discussed – they were most definitely a catalyst, but were they really the thing that brought the two of them together, in the end?

Molly decides that, to answer this question, they must first evaluate their virtues.

Of course, neither Molly nor Sherlock can see their own virtues – they're much too busy being blinded by their self-hatred and their ignorance, respectively.

Sherlock isn't exactly quick to point out Molly's best qualities, but he finds it in himself somewhere to articulate what he sees in her: generosity, humility, forgiveness, and intelligence.

She looks stunned for a moment. "And my greatest virtue?"

"I'm working on that one. Give me a minute."

Of course, Molly sees right into Sherlock's heart – maybe not his head, but definitely his heart, and can easily find his greatest virtues: impeccable self-control and self-efficiency, musical talent, and endless curiosity.

"Your greatest virtue? Easy. You do not merely 'see' – you observe."

Sherlock clears his throat, his eyes wide. He stutters for a moment. "You – I've concluded what yours is – your greatest virtue, I mean."

"And? Care to share with the rest of the group?"

"It's..." he begins. "It's your capacity for love."

* * *

"Hello?"

_"Hey, Molls – it's Mary. Is Sherlock with you by any chance?"_

Molly hesitates. "Why?"

There's a sigh on the other end of the line. _"Well, he doesn't have his phone on him, and for some outlandish reason, John has become a fugitive, and he's being hunted down by MI5. I've been told that it's somehow Moriarty's henchman's doing. Needless to say, we need Sherlock. So, now that I've explained myself – is Sherlock with you?"_

Molly's eyes widen in shock and she's left speechless. She just hands her mobile to a half-awake Sherlock. Molly hears a cartoon-like voice coming from the phone's speaker, only able to make out Sherlock's half of the conversation.

"Oh, for god's – has anybody contacted Mycroft? […] Oh, how _wonderful_. […] Well, who? There must be _some _other competent people besides Lestrade to help! […] Are you kidding me? He lowers the IQ of the whole street! [...] Fine, I'll permit Donovan to tag along. [...] For now, take the handgun to Mrs Hudson for safe keeping, fetch us all some takeaway, and I'll meet you at the Yard in an hour."

He ends the call and hands the phone back to Molly. "Well?" she asks anxiously.

He frowns.

_"Vatican Cameos."_

* * *

Of course, one shouldn't assume that Molly and Sherlock will live happily ever after. There's no such thing in the real world. No, because in the real world, vices like theirs aren't so easily abolished. In the real world, relapse is an inevitable pit-stop on the road to recovery. And in the real world, one cannot depend solely on another person to save them from themselves.

Just because the key is around Sherlock's neck doesn't mean that Molly won't grow desperate enough to use another weapon on herself. It doesn't mean that she won't have to sate the Monster in her head. It doesn't mean that she won't find other self-destructive routes to quell the urges. It doesn't mean that she won't soon find solace in excessive alcohol and prescription pain medication.

And just because the key is around Molly's neck doesn't mean that Sherlock wont construct another kit for himself. It doesn't mean that he won't fall back into drugs every once in a while. It doesn't mean that he's invincible to the wrath and the frailty of Genius. It doesn't mean that he has cured himself of addiction.

But really, that's not the point. They cannot be each other's saviour. They cannot save the other person, no matter how much love they pour from their hearts. In the end, in real life, the only true way to recover from these vices is by addressing it oneself. With the help of one's virtues, recovery can be achieved. But, by the same token, that doesn't mean that a little help along the way should go amiss. After all, recovery is impossible without motivation. And though they cannot be each other's saviour, they can definitely be each other's motivation.

That's what's most important in the end, really – because what point is there in trying to live when one's heart is bereft of love?

So, no – it's foolish to say that Molly and Sherlock will live happily ever-after. There will be bumps along the way – some more damaging than others – and many tears will be shed. There will be pain, and there will be sorrow. But at the same time, there will be vast amounts of togetherness, compassion, and support while each of them fight their own personal demons.

The highlight of this story is not meant to tell of how destructive one's vices can truly be; rather, it's meant to show how much can be solved by discovering one's greatest virtues, and how sometimes, all that's needed to kick-start one's recovery is a warm, loving hand to hold.

* * *

A/N:

Oh, and I forgot to ask: how incredibly obvious is it that I'm actually American?

Thank you to everyone who saw this story to the very end! I hope you enjoyed it and found the end satisfying. I put a lot of myself into this and I really hope that it turned out well. I cannot express in words how much all of your encouraging comments have warmed my heart. It's amazing to know that not only is this story relatable to so many of you, but also that it's turning out exactly as I intended it to. Your support is what fuels me.

I'm almost positive that there will be a sequel of some kind, full of angst and feels and all that jazz. However, I'm not exactly sure what I want to do yet, and I refuse to write a sequel without any real substance just for the sake of writing a damned sequel. And on that note, I'm open to ideas/suggestions if any of you have any thoughts on where this story should go!

As always, I really love reviews; both criticism and praise is greatly appreciated, as it helps me to improve myself in the future. Thank you for reading!


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